


Once Bitten, Never Shy

by ThePlotNinja



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubious Consent, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Spiders made them do it... kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePlotNinja/pseuds/ThePlotNinja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An array of spiders sit on the table in jars when John bursts through the door. Of course, Sherlock has somehow let himself be bitten by a certain exotic, bright-yellow spider, whose toxins have incredibly unusual properties...</p><p>Achtung: Dub-con, Asexual!predatory!Sherlock (whatever that means), Reluctant!John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In an emergency, call 999

**Author's Note:**

> Aloha, talofa lava, bonjour, g'day! :)
> 
> This was my first fanfic, originally on FanFiction.net. I had no idea how to write porn... Not sure I do now, either, but back then I certainly had no idea. Let me know what you think, even though it's written and complete and I ain't changing it now :P
> 
> Much love,  
> -The Plot Ninja

John was in a patient consultation when his phone first started humming along the desk. The force behind the vibrations made the device crawl towards the edge threateningly, daring him not to answer.

Excusing himself to the elderly woman with "pain here, here, here and here", he caught it just before it crashed to the lino floor.

_I require your assistance –SH_

John sighed, tucking his phone into his pocket. 'Sorry about that,' he told Mrs. Williams as he turned back to her. 'Where were we?'

'My elbow,' the woman croaked, stretching out the joint with a creak. 'Is it cancer?'

'It's very unlikely that it would be – hold on,' John said again, and, ignoring Mrs. Williams' look of indignation at being disrespected so, he plucked the phone from his pocket once more; the vibrate setting on his phone wasn't this loud before, he could swear; in fact, just three days ago he had received upwards of twenty-five texts without realising, because it was so quiet. Needless to say, Sherlock had not been impressed.

John swiped his finger across the screen, opening the text.

_This is a matter of great urgency. Please return home –SH_

With his brow furrowed into a scowl, John keyed in his response.

_Working. Can't leave. –JW_

He jumped as his patient coughed impatiently. 'Sorry for that. Here, I'm just going to check for lumps on your arm...' The buzzing in his pocket resumed with renewed vigour, but he left it be, focussing his attention on reassuring a now rather cranky Mrs. Williams that if she started taking her arthritis pills he had prescribed last time, the pain would recede, and no, it was not cancer, lung disease nor the onset of a stroke.

Ten minutes later, he closed his office door behind her, and tapped at his phone, sighing as he flicked through his messages; however, his expression quickly turned from exasperated to anxious.

_I could be in terrible danger. –SH_

_Usually you're so gullible, why is it this particular time that you decide not to believe me? –SH_

_Oh, and where do we keep the tweezers? –SH_

_Also, I'm having trouble locating the first aid kit. –SH_

_John. –SH_

_John. –SH_

_John. –SH_

_No need to worry – I shot him, and the police and fire department are on their way. – SH_

At reading this last text, John swept his coat from the hook, rushing from the clinic without a glance backwards. 'Emergency at home,' he announced to the receptionist at the desk, who, having met Sherlock once before, called after him, 'I'll say a prayer for you.'

Once in the taxi, John hastily turned to his phone once more, navigating to his messages.

_First aid kit – under sink in bathroom. Tweezers there. Unless flat is on fire, in which case get out. What have u done? –JW_

No reply came, and it only made John's nerves grow as the cab neared 221B.


	2. Theridion gelbus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely people. Just thought I'd tell you a little about this spidey in the part coming up.
> 
> Not to fear - he doesn't actually exist. There's a Theridion grallator, the Happy Face spider from Hawai'i, but it's non-toxic to humans. They are related to the Black Widow, however, and so while I've been a little fanciful when describing potential symptoms of a bite, it's not entirely impossible.
> 
> Once again, REVIEW, even if it's just a number between 1 and 10 of how you'd rate this story :)
> 
> -The Plot Ninja

He flung the door of the flat open with a forceful shove, peering around wildly. No flames, no blood. The only person he could see in the flat was his flatmate, sitting on the settee with one leg crossed over the other. 'Ah, John,' the man said, infuriating calmness infused in his low voice. 'Welcome home.'

'Where's the body?' John demanded frantically, ignoring the greeting; everything seemed normal in the flat, and the only thing that had changed since he'd left that morning was the collection of jars now assembled on the dining room table.

'No body, I simply texted you what I knew would get you here the fastest. Now, I need you to-'

John held up a hand, interrupting with a sputter. 'I left work early and raced home because of your text! There are a couple of dozen people needing medical attention over at the clinic, and they're understaffed as it is! I shouldn't have to come running at your beck and call, you know, Sherlock!'

Sherlock looked only vaguely put out. 'A few cases of the common cold and the occasional idiot who sliced the tip of their finger off with a kitchen knife? They can wait; this needs you attention immediately. Now, if you would look-'

'No, Sherlock, they're my patients; they shouldn't have to wait, they have priority over my flatmate. And-' John broke off, suddenly noticing the pallor of Sherlock's skin, the light sheen of sweat over his forehead, the way he was fidgeting and tapping his feet as though he wanted to get up and pace but was glued to the seat. 'Sherlock, are you quite alright?'

The tall man rolled his eyes, running fingers through dark hair, damp with sweat. 'This is what I've been telling you, John; I need you to treat me for a spider bite immediately.'

'Did you see what sort of spider it was?'

Sherlock nodded in the direction of the table. 'It's the one in the jar with the orange lid,' he said, jiggling his knee up and down.

John's eyes grew wide as he approached the collection of jars, finally realising what was in them. A different species of spider in each, many brightly coloured and exotic-looking. 'Sherlock, what are you doing with all these?' he managed. 'Is that a black widow?'

'No, a red-back,' Sherlock replied. 'It's in the same genus, though. The black widow is the one at the back there. It's for the case!' he added. 'I was running some tests on them, and, as it turns out, Theridion gelbus is a lot faster than I thought.'

'Theri-what?' John looked from the bright-yellow creature in the jar, to his flatmate, and back again. The spider was about the size of the round part of a teaspoon, with long, stilt-like legs, charcoal black eyes of which there seemed to be far too many, and a red splotch on its abdomen, outlined in black, which looked roughly like the "spade" in a deck of cards. To be fair to the spider, it was being incredibly brave, drawing itself up to its full height and clicking its pincers at this monster looming above it. 'Sherlock, how am I supposed to know how to treat you for a bite from a tropical spider I've never heard of before? Come sit over here, I'm going to ask my mate at the Poison and Drug Information Centre.'

'I can't. No, John, I'm not being insolent; I can't get up.'

John looked at him, alarm growing in his eyes. 'What? Are the muscles in your legs weak? Spasming? I need to get you to the hospital...'

His eyes shifted back to Sherlock's; a light blush glowed on his otherwise clammy-looking cheeks. It looked vaguely like embarrassment, but it couldn't be. What did Sherlock have to be embarrassed about? He made a gesture towards the detective. 'What aren't you telling me?'

The man waved it off, resuming his fidgeting. 'Call your friend. I need to get back to running these experiments, so the sooner you medicine me up, the better.'

 

-OoOoO-

 

'Theridion gelbus. Yeah, don't ask how he got it; I don't know either, and truthfully, I don't really want to.'

John turned the glass jar around with one hand as he talked, examining the arachnid.

'Completely legally!' Sherlock's voice came from the living room. John huffed, doubtful.

'Wow, don't get many of those outside of Hawai'i,' his friend Matty laughed, his voice tinny through the speaker. 'Don't worry, they're not deadly, unless they bite someone with an incredibly weak heart, and even then it's unlikely. The toxin in their bite has two main effects: increasing blood flow around the body, and increasing testosterone levels. Other than that, sometimes a light fever, increased respiration to cope with the increased blood flow. How long ago was the patient bitten?'

'How long has it been since-' John started repeating to Sherlock, receiving a breathy 'Two hours, ten minutes' in response. John told Matty so.

'Give him about four hours, and those effects will have worn off, just leaving a bit of a lump where the bite mark is. When that happens, give him a panadol and chuck some ice on it, and he'll be fine.'

John smiled with relief. 'Good. That's great. And, how do I manage the effects until then? He seems... uncomfortable.' The doctor glanced over to his flatmate, but all he could see was a bundle of black curls over the back of the sofa.

Matty sniggered; John couldn't quite see what was so funny. 'Ah, up to that stage, ae? Patients usually figure out what they need to do to manage the effects by themselves, don't worry about that. Ah well, it was nice talking to you, John. We should catch up sometime.'

'Yeah, definitely,' John replied, knowing that out of the twenty people who had said that since he'd gotten back, he'd met up with just two of them. 'Catch you later, Matty.'

He hung up, realising half way to putting the phone down that he hadn't asked his friend to elaborate, when he probably should have.

Increased blood flow... Increased testosterone...

And then it dawned on him.

'Sherlock...' He wandered back into the living room. 'Can you please stand up? I need to check something.'

'He said it wasn't dangerous, didn't he? So, give me whatever medication is required and then, please, leave me alone.' Sherlock's voice was almost a whimper.

John stood over him for a moment or two longer, but when it became obvious Sherlock wasn't going to do as he requested, John did the one thing he could do. He reached down, grabbed one of Sherlock's knees in each hand, and pushed his legs apart. Sherlock gasped as he did so, shutting his eyes tightly, but what John saw confirmed his suspicions.

The increased circulation had affected his flatmate's body in the same way as an aphrodisiac.

Sherlock had a raging hard-on.


	3. Fly in the web

'You need to deal with that, you know.' John cut through the silence over the top of his book, not bothering to look up.

'Do not,' Sherlock panted back at him, gnashing his teeth as he rearranged himself on the sofa yet again in a futile attempt to get comfortable. 'Three hours, twenty-eight minutes.' His voice was strained.

John stole a glance at his watch. 'You're counting down the minutes?' he asked incredulously. 'These things don't run on a schedule – toxins and chemicals take different amounts of time to pass through different people's systems. It could be an extra hour, even.'

'Could be less,' Sherlock pointed out, attempting to stretch the elastic in his pyjama pants to relieve the pressure he was feeling in his genitals, though he knew it was unlikely to have any effect. John simply hummed in non-committal, turning the page.

Another silent minute dragged itself away. Sherlock shuffled again.

'For goodness' sake, man! Go have a wank, and it'll be over with!' John burst out with frustration, snapping his book shut and instantly regretting not noting what page he'd stopped at.

Sherlock shuddered in theatrical revulsion. 'If you must know, I find self-gratification a rather useless and primitive pursuit that I refuse to engage in, even under these circumstances. Should I require a partner to relieve certain...' He winced, though whether it was in discomfort of the idea or of his condition, John wasn't sure. '... Insuppressible urges, then I am most certainly capable of finding one. Not that those insuppressible urges are usually a problem.'

John found himself intrigued, and was disgusted in himself for being intrigued. 'Why? Because you can usually suppress them?'

Snorting out a laugh, Sherlock shifted again. 'No; because I find the act itself rather repulsive. And, yes, before you ask,' he added, running his gaze over John's face and finding the unasked question, 'I have had plenty enough experience to deem it so. University was, shall we say, a prosperous time for my scientific exploits.'

'Right...' John said, a faint blush creeping up his neck. Only Sherlock could make doing the rounds sound like a reasonable and logical hobby. 'And, just wondering...' Now seemed as good a time as ever to ask. 'If you were to pick up a "partner" to relieve those "insuppressible urges... Would they be male or female?'

Sherlock shot him a sharp look, and suddenly the blush ran all the way from John's neck to his hairline. 'Oh God, that makes it sound like I'm coming onto you, doesn't it? Sorry, forget I asked.'

The detective chuckled a little bark. 'Either. Bodies are all transport anyway, so what does it matter if one happens to have their parts here or there.'

He didn't accompany this statement with gestures, but John's cheeks still flushed a deeper pink when he thought about it. 'Right. That's... Right.' He awkwardly flicked his book open again, moving his eyes along the lines and quite forgetting to try to read at all, let alone trying to find where he'd left off.

Sherlock continued to twist and turn, his frustration growing as he searched for a way to get comfortable. 'This is rubbish!' he yelled suddenly, leaping to his feet. He picked up a mug and flung it at the wall, tea dregs and all. 'Gah!' With that, he spun around and placed a kick right in the centre of the sofa he'd been sitting on, obviously trying to knock it over. He failed; it was too heavy and well-centred, and so although it was pushed back about half a metre, it stayed upright.

'Hey! Sherlock!' John reproached as the tall man threw all his body weight into the cushions, causing the sofa to screech against the floor. 'Settle down; it's the toxin making your testosterone levels rise.' He moved closer to the man and grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders, trying to calm him by holding him still.

His plan failed quickly, however; Sherlock turned to face him, and with the extra strength found through the increased testosterone coursing through his system, he easily threw John down onto his back on the couch, pinning him there by his wrists. He looked into John's eyes for a moment, and John saw the chaos and confusion going on behind the silvery-grey.

Suddenly, Sherlock swooped in for a kiss, crushing and desperate.

When John would look back on the moment in the days to come, he would feel shame burning his insides; because, for someone who was arrow-straight like him, the crushing, powerful kiss should not have been as emotionally intense for him as it was. He shouldn't have felt the thrill of excitement, or enjoyed it as much as he did. He certainly shouldn't have moved into it, shouldn't have kissed back.

Finally, the need to breathe brought him back to himself, and he pulled away, drawing in a gulp of air. 'Get off! What are you doing?'

'You know you want this,' Sherlock retorted, leaning down to whisper in his ear. 'You have for a while, haven't you, John? No need to deny it; your body is perfectly capable of speaking for itself.' He lowered himself a bit, and suddenly he was grinding against John, uttering a low growl. John felt a jolt, as powerful as electricity, run along his spine up to his brain; no doubt his body's  _subtle_  way of saying that yes, it did in fact want this.

'You're not in your right mind, Sherlock!' John reminded him, trying to free his wrists. 'You wouldn't be doing this normally.'

'Of course I wouldn't,' Sherlock acknowledged, 'but you're the one who said I should do something about... this...' He pushed his crotch against John's again, extracting a low moan from them both. 'So, if I need this, and you want this, the next logical step is to do it, am I correct?'

John twisted and turned under the weight of his flatmate, trying to escape the shackle-like grip the long, wiry fingers had around his wrists. 'No,' he snarled, hoping that the roughness in his voice wouldn't be interpreted as arousal. It was arousal, but that was beside the point. 'Sherlock, I'm serious – get off.'

The man showed no signs of moving, besides the slow pattern of grinding then halting and moaning that he had begun. John made up his mind. He abruptly pushed himself up with all his might, sandwiching delicate parts between them roughly. Sherlock made a sound half way between a squeak and a yelp, pulling away just enough for John to slip from under him and make a frantic dash towards the door.

He almost got away, too.

However, he felt Sherlock's fingers grasp him in a hold as tightly as the spider that had bitten him would cocoon its prey; John could feel both their silky softness and their wrought-iron strength. 'I'm not done with you yet,' Sherlock's voice murmured behind him, speaking purely of testosterone and lust, and that's when John knew.

There's always the tiny bug that manages to get itself caught in exactly the middle of a spider's web, squarely bound by the sticky fibres, and yet somewhere in its little buggy brain it thinks that if it struggles hard enough it can break free, when really all its struggles do is enhance the spider's appetite, entice it closer.

And at this moment, that bug was him.


	4. Fun sized, like chocolate

John struggled in the grip tugging him back, managing to step back a few steps but suspecting that Sherlock had simply allowed him to do this to get pulled up from the floor. John felt the hand spin him around, and he came nose-to-chest with Sherlock. 'John...' The voice was low and lusty, and made him shiver involuntarily. He raised his eyes to meet his flatmate's, deep silver pools of emotion that they were, and stood there, transfixed, as soft lips crept towards his own slowly.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together into a scowl. 'Why must you be so short?' he complained, his voice now less like velvet and more like that of a whinging four-year-old. 'It makes things so awkward.'

And the moment was gone, shattered like crystal hitting concrete.

The doctor huffed, partly in disbelief at how quickly Sherlock seemed able to change moods, and also feeling a bit hurt; John's height had always been a sore point for him. He had waited for his growth spurt right through his teenage years and quite a way into his twenties, but it had never come. 'I'm sorry, not all of us have the ability to sprout like bloody beanstalks,' he retorted, wishing his voice sounded more sarcastic and less upset. 'Grab me some Growth Hormone next time you're out shopping, would you?'

'That would be rather useless now, you're well past the age where it could take any effect,' Sherlock snorted; then, seeming to notice the black storm cloud now hovering above John's head, threatening lightning, he amended, 'but I guess your height isn't so bad. Compact, or fun-sized, or whatever they call it.'

'Are you comparing me to a piece of fold-up gym equipment, or a chocolate bar? Because they come in "Compact" and "Fun-sized".' The look in John's eyes was murderous. ' _I am not "fun-sized"._  Now, let me go!' He finally yanked his arm free of the detective's hold. 'There's Vaseline in the drawer in the bathroom, go and Google some porn, and deal with your... Deal with that.'

With that he stormed out of the room, steps echoing as though he had shoes of pure lead on and was determined to break through the floorboards.

His dramatic exit was somewhat ruined when he popped his head back around the corner. 'And, don't use my computer for Googling porn. In fact...'

He avoided Sherlock's gaze as he padded across the room, much quieter than before. 'I'd better take this with me,' he told the empty space in the room as he continued to ignore Sherlock's presence, tucked the device under his arm and turned to leave again.

'You're going to regret passing this up,' Sherlock informed him, his voice neutral. He seemed to be holding his tense, twitching muscles under the sternest control, because the strain didn't make his voice tremble in the slightest. 'You're going to know that, deep down, you wanted this, and you passed it up because of some stupid principle that you only hold because of a stern, conservative upbringing and the fear that your parents will think the same of you as they do of your sister. Don't argue; I've known you two months, which is ample time to deduce all of that. You have two hours, fifty-six minutes, and then I retract my offer; despite this circumstance I currently find myself in, after the effects wear off my libido will return to its norm – that is to say, absolute zero.'

John strode to the door before the detective had even finished his last sentence, sweeping up the stairs with what he told himself was contempt.

If he was more honest with himself, though, it was probably something closer to fear.

Because, deep down, John knew Sherlock had been standing right on top of the Truth with a shovel, and he knew that once that was dug up, putting it back in the ground was not an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ello, ello, ello!
> 
> Yeah, this was the point where there should have been smut... But I had no idea how to write it. So, plot extension. Soz. Please don't throw tomatoes at me.
> 
> Yours,  
> -The Plot Ninja


	5. Vague Intentions of Earl Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladyofpride commented on Chapter 3 with, "Poor, poor John"....
> 
> Umm...  
> Yeah, this chapter...  
> Poor John.
> 
> Stay gorgeous!  
> -The Plot Ninja

By the clattering going on downstairs, John figured that Sherlock was attempting to divert his attentions and energy into his scientific exploits. John was almost tempted to go back down and see how that was working out for him; it would take Sherlock something pretty stunning to distract him from what was undoubtedly still burning a hole through his trousers.

A problem John also faced.

Frowning down at the lump in his work trousers, he decided to give Sherlock's tactic a go; ignoring it until it went away. Sure, it didn't work so well for Sherlock, but, unlike his flatmate, John didn't have  _Theridion gelbus_  venom coursing through his system, which would hopefully give him an advantage. He flopped down onto the bed and settled into his book again. It was his favourite sort, a crime, with lots of gore and running – his psychologist would have a field day trying to analyse that, he realised with a smirk.

" _Gareth swung down from his perch, sending one punishing kick into his enemy's crotch..."_

John winced, his attention redirected to the lower portion of his body again. Damn it, he was trying to avoid thinking about that. He flicked forwards a couple of pages, through the floor-rolling and the part-clutching.

" _He could see her through the arch, beautiful even in defeat. Her arms were pulled tight by ropes, dark hair a curtain in front of her face, and her head was lowered in desolation; the pose showed off her delicate alabaster-white neck like a glint of moonlight. The thin, lightly coloured shirt-dress she wore was wet, and clung to her body, accentuating the curve of her hip and the roundness of-"_

Curse this writer, John thought, shifting and pulling at the front of his pants to try and accommodate his hardening erection. He had picked up a crime novel, not a Mills & Boon. After a quick rearrangement of himself, he flicked forwards at least ten pages – not surprisingly, he now found himself rather closer to the end of the book than he had meant to be.

" ' _Come on, now,' the blonde man urged, rushing through the entrance._

' _I am coming.' Elba moaned as her weight went down on her leg. 'I'm coming as fast as I can.'"_

John did a double take. How had he managed to take a perfectly innocent action scene, with the concerned hero and the injured, limping heroine finally reaching their safe-house, and turn it dirty in his mind? He had just ruined the climax of the book, he realised with a disappointed sigh.

Then he snapped the book shut. Climax. That was it, the last straw. His genitals were begging for help, and now his brain had joined its cause.

He set his book down on the bedside table and reached for the box of tissues.

-OoOoO-

Sherlock was still wound up as tight as a spring when John emerged, in much more a stable state than he had fled in. He did feel sorry for the consulting detective – it couldn't be comfortable, sitting at the table whilst staring through a microscope, all the while trying to ignore a hot, rock-hard lump in your underwear. And, yes, now that he looked a little closer, the detective did seem to be holding himself a little above the seat to avoid contact.

John shook his head. Remember, he told himself, Sherlock was the one that has the spiders here in the first place, and let it bite him; and if he wanted to relieve it, all he had to do was swallow his pride and find the Vaseline.

'Two hours four minutes.'

John looked up at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice; however, he couldn't be sure if the man was addressing him, or the arachnid that was currently in the microscope's spotlight, as Sherlock didn't raise his head from his task. 'Pardon me?'

'You have two hours and four minutes during which you can still change your mind,' Sherlock informed him, his voice bored and neutral, as though simply recalling the results from his latest experiment. 'After that I will be back to my usual under-control, asexual, unobtainable self. Your choice.'

'Hmmph,' John half-chuckled, turning towards the kitchen with the vague intention of Earl Grey. 'You do have a rather high opinion of yourself, don't you? I'm straight. And, just because for once in your life you have a stiffy, doesn't mean that I need to beg sexual favours of you. I can control my urges.'

At this, Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from his favourite toy and looked John up and down, eyes raking in every detail. 'Yes, I suppose you can,' he agreed absently, the words curled at the edges by a touch of distaste; he had deduced what John had done in the blink of an eye. 'Two sugars no milk for me, thank you John.'

John stood still for a moment, looking over his clothing to try to find the clues Sherlock had found so easily; then, giving up, he retreated to the kitchen, his cheeks flushed bright red. There was no doubt in his mind what he had to do to relieve the embarrassment – he was English.

No tea had ever been made so precisely.

-OoOoO-

He took a slow, savouring sip, then allowed the mug to rest gently on the floor beside the couch. Really, he should get a coaster for that; but, it was such perfect tea, it deserved to be enjoyed fully, without such insignificant things distracting him from it. He sighed contentedly, finally loosening his tie and his top button since he had come rushing in from the clinic.

'It's getting on for dinner-time, actually, Sherlock,' he realised aloud as he glanced at the clock. 'Any requests?'

'Not hungry.'

John shook his head. 'Come on, you have to eat something. It'll probably help your body to get rid of the toxin faster.' He had no idea if that were true or not, but it sounded reasonable enough.

'No. Oh...'

That voice... It either meant serious trouble or an amazing breakthrough. 'What?' John asked, taking a larger gulp of his tea. If they had to rush off anywhere, then God help him, he was going to finish this amazing tea first.

'John,' Sherlock said slowly, standing up and peering cautiously around the room, 'if it's alright, could you please stay right where you are? I think we may have a problem.'

'... Alright,' John agreed hesitantly, scratching an itch on his neck. 'What's the problem?'

'Well, you see,' Sherlock replied slowly, making nervousness creep through John with each second – his flatmate was all about getting straight to the point, so when he drew things out, it meant that something very Not Good was going to happen. 'I may possibly have looked into  _Theridion gelbus'_  enclosure just now-'

'Enclosure? It's a jar, Sherlock,' John corrected impatiently. 'So what?

'Yes, yes, I looked into its jar, and... It's not there. I have lost it.'

'You've... Wait, you've what?'

Sherlock tutted, ducking down to look under the sofa. 'Really, John, I am loathe to repeat myself. I lost the spider. There was a spider of the  _Theridion_  genus sitting in that jar there, and now there isn't.'

John had a sinking feeling. 'Well in that case, would you like the good news or the bad news?'

Sherlock leapt to his feet again, looking into his eyes eagerly. 'Both, of course. You've found it? Excellent work, John. I'll grab the jar.'

'Yes, that's the good news,' John agreed; he slowly reached his fingers towards the second highest button of his shirt. 'The bad news, however...' He pulled his shirt open a little, exposing his chest. 'It seems to have found me first.'

As he carefully pulled away the third button, Sherlock's eyes widened. There, sitting quite happily on John's chest, was one long-legged, bright yellow arachnid, barely moving at all. From this angle, John realised his mistake before. The marking on the spider's back wasn't a bright red spade pattern; it was a heart. If he hadn't been so terrified and trying not to breathe to keep the spider as content as it seemed to be now, he might have laughed.

'Hold on, John.' Sherlock had returned with a jar and a piece of cardboard before John even knew he was gone. With precision and control that John hadn't known possible of his firecracker of a flatmate, Sherlock lowered the jar down around the little creature, making sure not to disturb it.

'Careful,' John uttered lowly, but the vibration through his chest was just enough that the spider felt it, and it scuttled a couple of centimetres to the left. John resumed his stone statue act.

'Here we go.' The cardboard slipped easily under the jar, trapping a few of John's chest hairs in the process but making quick progress towards the spider.

And suddenly, when there was just a finger's width of John's bare skin left uncovered by cardboard under the jar – that was when  _Theridion gelbus_  decided to strike.

No sooner than John had felt the pincers pierce his skin, Sherlock managed to shuffle the piece of paper under the arachnid and scoop it up, but it was too late. It wouldn't be long now before the effects started to take hold. John lifted one finger and pointed at Sherlock, accompanied by a sharp, accusatory glare that promised to unleash hellfire.

'Once I get through this,' John hissed, his voice deadly quiet, 'I'm going to strangle you.'

Sherlock looked slightly shocked by this statement, unsure whether to feel insulted or take it as he probably deserved. He came to a decision.

'I'm going to the morgue,' he announced, slipping his coat on and almost tripping over himself to get out the door. 'I may be a while.'

And with that, the door slammed shut.

John stood, re-buttoning his shirt. 'That man,' he confided in the spider that had just bitten him, 'is going to kill me one day, I can feel it.' And then he turned tails, stopping only to retrieve Vaseline and a new box of tissues, to wait out the inevitable effects.


	6. Life Is Bloody Dandy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the main character, this one's a shorty.
> 
> -The Plot Ninja

John was curled up on the sofa when Sherlock slammed back through the door not half an hour later, his gait more elephantine than his usual giraffe-like elegance.

'John, that's my seat.' Sherlock looked pointedly at his dressing gown, still strewn across the chair's arm.

'Eff off.'

Sherlock's eyebrows performed a miniature Mexican wave. He hovered uncertainly for a moment.

Expletives were highly uncharacteristic of John. Usually he was so understanding of Sherlock's quirks such as requiring that his chair remain vacant, and that without warning the bathtub might be repurposed for experiments in decomposition. (A shouting match about suitability of the tub for holding such experiments generally preceded sullen acceptance; but it was acceptance nonetheless.) 'Is something the matter?'

When the blonde man turned his head to look at Sherlock, the detective realised how lucky he was that John had never taken up the hobby of knife-throwing; the tone of his voice was deadly enough. 'No, Sherlock. Apart from having a flatmate who is an absolute arse and who sets venomous tropical spiders loose in the house, life is bloody dandy.' He pulled himself back into a ball, burying his face into the cushions to block out his misery.

'Right.' Sherlock perched himself on the armchair, wincing. He felt silence filling the air like soot; he cleared his throat a little in an effort to clear it away. 'Have you reconsidered what I suggested?'

'Don't even try that again,' a muffled voice grumbled.

Sherlock huffed, growing impatient. 'Well, why not? You obviously haven't self-serviced yourself free of your symptoms.'

'I tried,' John admitted, finally rolling over and sitting up. 'It's not... I wasn't... Satisfied.' He stared intently at the patch of carpet next to Sherlock's left shoe, his cheeks flushed. Whether this was the embarrassment that hadn't ceased from the beginning of the man's ordeal colouring his cheeks, or the effort it was taking not to curl back up into the foetal position, Sherlock wasn't sure.

As yet another wave of testosterone hit, there was one thing he was entirely certain of, however, and the realisation hit him like a brick wall on wheels.

He was highly attracted to Doctor John Watson.

The man's blond, tousled hair was sticking up at all sorts of angles, practically begging to either be stroked smooth, or for fingers to weave through, to grasp, to tug, to caress. His eyes were bright, his breath was coming faster than normal, and his lips were slightly open and oh so kissable. His shirt, unbuttoned most the way during his feverish stage, left a triangle of bare chest exposed, and his trousers were buttoned but unzipped, allowing the straining organ a little more room to push against the navy-blue material of his underwear.

Sherlock found that he had changed seats before his brain even had a chance to catch up. One of his arms looped around John's shoulders like a lasso, tying him in place, and he cupped John's chin with his hand, turning his head to look into the man's golden-brown eyes. 'Then allow me,' he demanded in a baritone murmur. He pulled John in for a kiss, dominating the man's mouth and exploring with his tongue. He heard him moan and give in to it, so he deepened the kiss and ran his fingers down John's neck, feeling rapid-fire pulse beneath his fingers. Working his way down under the shirt's seams, he caressed John's chest, pausing when his straying fingers found a nipple. The man jolted as if electrified, and Sherlock's chuckle of amusement was a hum against John's mouth. Reaching for the other nipple, he traced a circle around the pink bud before giving it a gentle squeeze.

This time John gasped, pulling away from the kiss as far as Sherlock's arm, still holding him around the shoulders, would let him. 'Sherlock, I can't do this. I'm straight.' He paused, panting, before continuing, 'I like girls, and besides, you're my flatmate, my friend – I don't want this to...' He searched for words. 'Ruin things.'

'We're adults, John. I'm sure we can handle this situation just fine without "ruining" anything. And although I'd be happy to dispute your sexuality any other time, now is not one of those times.'

'What?' Indignation ran through John's voice. 'I am straight, though!'

'I'm asexual,' Sherlock pointed out. 'That's not holding me back.'

Out of reasons, John simply started struggling. 'Sherlock, I don't want this. Let me go.'

The detective rolled his eyes. 'If I must pursue a stronger course of action, I will.'

'What?'

His left arm still holding John prisoner, Sherlock slid his right hand down over the bulging underwear poking out from John's trousers, and rubbed gently, a fiendish smile gracing his long face when the doctor let out a low, guttural moan. John's breathing was faster now; Sherlock was almost concerned about the possibility of hyperventilation. On the other hand, he thought, this was far too much fun to stop. 'So, you're straight and you don't want this?'

'Sherl- ngggh!' was all John could manage as he did it again. His body shuddered at the contact, and his breathing hitched.

'But that's just your conservative, safe side talking, isn't it, John? You want this, really.' He put torturously slow pressure on the hot organ through the material.

'I- I- oh, God,' John stuttered, incapable of anything else but moans and grunts.

'Oh, you don't?' Sherlock feigned confusion, and pulled his hand away from John without warning, which was met with a gasp and a groan. He frowned his puzzlement. ' Your decision, of course.' He waited.

The internal struggle was a fascinating watch. Like tennis – hypnotising. Sherlock smirked as he watched arousal and passion team up against John's sense of what was proper; two against one was hardly a fair match, but propriety put up an incredibly good fight. John's dignity went down with dignity, as was only fitting. 'Please,' he mumbled lowly. 'Don't stop.'

As soon as those three words had been uttered, Sherlock claimed his mouth again, devastating any chance John had of escape. 'Very well, doctor. Come along, we'll see if we can't relieve you of your symptoms.'

Then he scooped John from the couch and carried his prey upstairs.


	7. A Sherlockian Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter you've all been waiting for; let's just say the story comes to a head *snigger*
> 
> With love,  
> -The Plot Ninja

John hated his body for betraying him like this. Absolutely hated it.

But then he found himself thrown unceremoniously onto the bed, stripped of all but his navy-blue boxers and crushed into a kiss by his lanky, powerful flatmate; and suddenly he didn't hate it at all.

'My God, John, where have you been hiding this talent?' Sherlock panted as he broke away for air, using the opportunity to shed his shirt. 'So entirely kissable – if I weren't so strictly asexual, I might turn gay just so I could devour your lips like this all the time.'

 _That's just the spider venom talking,_  John might have said, if Sherlock hadn't already regained his grasp on John's shoulders and begun to devour his lips again.

_Devour. That's a good word for it._

_Oh._

He gasped surprise as lips brushed up his neck, then soft lips began nipping at his collarbone. Uncertain what to do with his hands, he gingerly raised them around Sherlock and touched them gently to the man's back. A tongue at his earlobe made him hold slightly harder, and he felt the outlines of Sherlock's shoulder blades and the movement of his muscles through the fine fabric. Suddenly impatient, he took a chance and gripped the shirt in both hands, trying to pull it over Sherlock's head.

His flatmate sat up at this, and John's endorphin-flooded brain felt the loss of his lips as disappointment, until he saw the man's triumphant smile. Still straddling John, Sherlock halved the clothing discrepancy between them by peeling off his shirt, flicking it across the room without a second look, before sliding back into his previous position on top of John. He caught the shorter man's arms as he went, and John found himself quite pinned to the bed.

'Now, where was I?' Sherlock mused as he held the captured hands with one of his own. He licked one finger slowly, sensuously, in such a way that made John's mouth go dry. 'Ah yes, I remember now.'

John shuddered as a wet finger wandered around his left nipple, circling closer and closer until it was rubbing right over the hardened nub in long, assured strokes. 'That's... Oh...' he started, trailing off when he realised he'd forgotten what he wanted to say. Another shuddering inhale, and he blushed and went quiet.

'Come on now, John,' Sherlock half-whispered in his dark-chocolate voice, running his hand down the doctor's side. 'I want to hear the noises I'm getting from you – don't hold them in.'

John blushed deeper, avoiding Sherlock's gaze; then suddenly, he tried to pull his hands out from under Sherlock's. 'Wait – is the front door locked?'

'No.'

'I have to go lock it – Mrs Hudson is downstairs, what if she comes up to-'

'No,' Sherlock repeated, his tone simultaneously a smirk and a command. 'If you get up, you might lose your nerve.'

'Then you do it – just, please?'

'And leave you, just when I've wound you up into the perfect state?' Sherlock asked, leaning in to nudge at John's neck again. 'Unlikely. Besides, the fact that you want to stay quiet will make it  _harder_  to extract those delicious sounds from you,' he whispered in John's ear; the emphasis was not accidental. 'I do rather like a challenge.' And with that he plunged his hand down the front of John's boxers.

'Nngghh!' John moaned suddenly, partly with surprise, but mostly because of the intensity of the pleasure being sent through his nerves. 'Ahhh...'

Sherlock had a wicked smile spread across his face as he played the doctor like an instrument, his nimble fingers stroking with intricate technique. 'This is when you're trying to be quiet?' he asked, the fascination in his words evident. 'Surely I can't have made you lose control already.'

He fluttered his fingers over the head of John's cock, and with a loud moan John pulled at the material of his boxers, sliding them down, in the hopes that it would increase the friction Sherlock could put on it. 'Please, Sherlock, please... Ahh... Please...'

'I take it back,' Sherlock pondered aloud. 'The idea of the front door being unlocked seems to turn you on; you're much more vocal than I thought.' He licked a line from John's jaw to his clavicle. 'Now, I don't think you're an exhibitionist; you're far too private a man for that.' Pulling the navy boxers the rest of the way off of John, he traced a line down the doctor's chest and stomach, shuffling down the bed and positioning himself between the man's legs. 'You get off on fear itself.'

Any objection John might have had was drowned in the rush of  _oh-so-good-don't-stop_  that flooded his brain as the head of his cock was drawn into Sherlock's mouth. A skilled tongue circled and swirled around it, manipulating the nerves that made John shudder and grasp the sheets. 'Mmmnnngh,' he moaned; he could feel the pulse throb in his thick member, and it took all his willpower not to come right then. His hips bucked as Sherlock changed tactics to flicker his tongue along the sensitive underside, but Sherlock's warm, insistent hands held him flat down on the bed, and caused him to quake instead as the detective did it again and again. A soft touch on his tight, drawn up balls extracted yet another noise rising from his vocal chords – a feral, uncontrolled sound that he barely believed was him.

Sherlock's fingers moved down to his shaft as he pulled his mouth away, panting. 'You really are exquisite, John,' he said, his voice silk and chocolate and dark promises once again. 'Come for me.'

And with that, he took John as far into his mouth as he could.

John lost any control he might have had as he felt Sherlock's warm mouth envelop him, the smooth tongue and ridged palate and tugging suction causing a cascade of sensations to crash over his mind. His vision blurred, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he trembled and jolted under Sherlock's control. An intense rush of adrenaline and testosterone ran through him, and he felt release drawing closer and closer until, in one more muscle-tensing moment, his orgasm rocked through his every nerve, and he came in surges. Finally he lay panting and still, too drained to move, too satisfied to think.

After minutes had passed, he at last raised his head; from there he could see Sherlock's smug, self-satisfied expression. He decided the man had a right to it; as it turned out, that mouth was for more than just sharp words and astute observations.

'Sherlock,' he eventually managed, his voice raspy at the edges. He cleared his throat a little. 'That was... Wow. Thank you.'

'That's quite alright,' the detective grinned, getting up and turning to leave.

'Wait... Don't you want me to...' He gestured in the direction of Sherlock's pants. 'Return the favour?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'No need. I felt my heart rate and testosterone levels return to normal a good half-hour ago; the spider venom has left my system. As such, I feel no particular desire for you in that way.'

John blinked, surprised. 'Then you did this...'

'As an experiment, John. Do try to keep up. I wanted to test the effects to their full extent. Now, I'm off to the lab. Don't wait up.'

And with that the lanky man swept from the room, scooping up his shirt as he went. Moments later, John heard the front door slam.

The doctor stayed still for several moments, trying to process the events that had just occurred; then a slow smile spread across his face. 'I don't believe it,' he murmured out loud to no one but himself and the bedposts, half smug and half stunned. 'I think I just received an apology from Sherlock Holmes.'

-OoOoO-

'We cannot replace this phone, Doctor Watson,' the salesman told him in that slow, patronising tone all salespeople develop. 'You see, the terms of the warranty have been broken with the modification of it.'

Modification? Harry hadn't mentioned changing anything on the device. 'Do you know what caused the damage, at least?'

'Not entirely sure, but it's probably this,' the techie said, prying the backing of the cell phone open to show him. 'You shouldn't have soldered the new vibrator so close to the battery; the larger motor is probably what's stuffing it up.' Technical jargon: not this man's speciality; however, this did ring a bell in John's head.

'New vibrator?'

'Yeah, it seems this phone has been fitted with a vibrator that has a motor bigger than the usual phone vibrator; constant use would probably cause it to overheat.'

'Ah, I see.' John kept his temper in front of the shop assistant, but replacing the backing, he shot off a text.

_You. Owe. Me. A. New. Phone. - JW_

Mere seconds later, he had a response. He never got to open it, however; with a hiss and a spark, the phone flickered and died. The acrid smell of battery acid hit their noses.

John sighed and internally counted to three.

'Could you please show me your selection of phones? Expensive as you like; my flatmate is going to pay for this.'

_Fin._


	8. Footage-In-Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having written this two years ago, by the end I was disappointed with myself. Johnlock? In my head-canon, Sherlock was entirely, utterly asexual, however attractive; I felt guilty for pairing him up like this. So I added this bit.
> 
> Because, I confess, my love of Johncroft is almost unparalleled.  
> Sorry. It's a weakness of mine.  
> To be fair to myself, though, it is my only weakness.
> 
> (I lie. Moriarty is another.)

Rhythmic steps of a tall man echoed on wooden flooring. A light gait, someone thin; and certain in their stride. Considering the imposing grandeur of the manor, there were very few people that could fit this category.

'Little brother,' Mycroft exclaimed without looking up from papers on his sturdy oak desk. 'How lovely that you would visit.'

'When one's own brother requests to see you, isn't it only polite to oblige?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pivoted in his chair, surveying Sherlock coolly. 'Polite, yes; however, with the pleasure of having you for a sibling, whether or not you will turn up is a gamble at best.'

Sherlock shifted in the doorframe, already becoming bored. 'What do you want, Mycroft?' he drawled.

'I'm concerned for you, Sherlock. That is all.'

Sherlock scoffed. 'Your concern is truly touching, you can be sure. But you wouldn't call me in for just that. Something must have changed, or you wouldn't have bothered.' His silver-blue eyes searched Mycroft's passive face, hunting for clues; then suddenly he narrowed them, cat-like and suspicious. 'You reinstalled the cameras, didn't you?'

'They're for your own safety, Sherlo-'

'No, Mycroft,' Sherlock interrupted furiously. 'They're to satisfy your own need for complete control.'

Seeing no headway being made in the argument, Mycroft cut to the point. 'I'm worried about the change in the relationship between you and your flatmate.'

'You mean you're jealous.'

'No, I...' How did Sherlock make such distant jumps to conclusions. 'Why would I be jealous, pray tell?'

A smirk from the sleuth. He wandered over to the chair opposite Mycroft's desk, planting his hands firmly on the back of it and leaning over. 'He's just your type.'

Mycroft didn't seem to want to dignify this with a response.

'Come now, Brother-dear,' Sherlock chided mockingly. 'You've always liked the strong-willed ones. Ones that you really have to work to intimidate.'

The older man pulled the papers in front of him into a tidy pile, setting them to the side, before looking up at his sibling; Sherlock was grinning smugly like a Cheshire cat. 'It's irrelevant, anyway,' he said hastily. 'I wanted only to remind you: Caring is not an advantage. Don't go developing feelings for this man, just because he's the first person able to tolerate you.'  _Aside from myself,_  he didn't add.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. 'You're a fine one to speak. Don't bother yourself, Mycroft – my little experiment yesterday was purely physical, as you would know if your delicate sensibilities didn't restrict you from monitoring John's bedroom. And now, I must get home; there are fifteen... no...' He scrutinised Mycroft's face again. 'Seventeen cameras that require disassembly.'

'Hold on,' Mycroft called to Sherlock's retreating back. 'You're giving me the green light?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'John's denial about his sexuality has him chasing after any chit that crosses his path; it's severely cutting into his availability. You might be the one able to bring my flatmate out of the wardrobe.'

'Closet.'

'Indeed.' Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets, twirling to face the door. 'I require him left in a state fit enough to chase criminals; aside from that, do what you will.'

And with that, the tall, slender man strode from the room.

Not ten seconds later, his head reappeared around the doorframe. 'And Mycroft? Don't scare this one off. You have no idea the difficulty of finding tolerable flatmates these days.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you had the excuse that you were busy reading. Now you have reached the end; no excuse is worthy. Comment! Praise, enquire, tear my work limb from limb - just, do something *pokes you with stick*
> 
> And if you wish, check out and terrorise my new Loki piece, "Escaping The Cage".
> 
> Ever yours,  
> -The Plot Ninja


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